


the horrors that i promised you

by pineapplepolvoron



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, God!Jaskier, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, No Beta, Post E6, but there's soft pining, he's super violent, i think a jaskier/yennefer vibe would be perfection, not that shippy, seriously jas is wild, we burn like cintra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24367879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplepolvoron/pseuds/pineapplepolvoron
Summary: Geralt should’ve seen it.  There were so many signs, but he was too busy being blind to notice just howoffhis bard was.orJaskier really does fuck off after the mountain and leaves Geralt to piece together the mess Jaskier makes in his wake.(chapter titles taken from “The Horror and the Wild” by The Amazing Devil)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 18
Kudos: 272





	1. and I am Time itself

Jaskier has always been an odd fellow, that much was plain to see. He would wear gaudy, expensive-as-hell clothes that were bound to be ruined within a week of him buying them.

(“Could you be a little more-” he gestured with one hand in an all-of-you kind of way “-delicate? Surely you’re aware that all those guts and blood stain your clothes beyond repair, which means they stain _my_ clothes beyond repair, and I don’t quite like needing to buy doublets every few days. Well, yes, I do, but not when I _need_ them! It takes the fun out of it,” he once asked while perched atop a tree, scribbling notes as he watched Geralt hack away at a nest of ghouls.)

He wouldn’t shut up if his life depended on it, which it very often did. Multiple times, Geralt held a knife to his throat, and even then, the bard just rolled his eyes and continued monologuing. Sometimes the witcher wonders if he was cursed by a mage; either Jaskier cursed with non-stop jabbering or Geralt cursed with Jaskier, he couldn’t tell. He could talk himself into and out of trouble in every town he pranced through (although more into than out of), into every bed in town (no matter the size of the bed or the town), and occasionally out of paying debts and bar fees.

He flirted with just about everything that could move, be it a fair maiden or a stable boy. It’s impossible to know how many wives’ beds he’d been chased out of, but that isn’t to say he hasn’t been chased out of _husbands’_ beds either. Every once in a while, Geralt would drag him away from the scant space between a man and a woman, and the bard never once expressed a preference between the two.

“You don’t sing of men, yet it’s no secret you’ve been with them,” Geralt once commented over roast pigeon while Jaskier idly strummed his lute.

“How am I to sing of fair gentlemen? It’s too unrealistic; men are all brutes and no one wants to hear about dainty cowards. Women, on the other hand, are nature’s pinnacle of beauty! Besides, wouldn't you much rather come home to a lovely lady than a garish pig?” Geralt didn’t voice that Jaskier was both a man and a “dainty coward” as the singer himself had put it.

He really was a dainty coward; without malice or insult, Geralt would freely admit that Jaskier was just a simple bard, trained classically in art and seduction, but not in warfare or even in self defense; without malice or insult (well, maybe a little insult), Geralt would freely admit that Jaskier ran from any and every sign of danger in the same way a moth chased after any and every sign of light. Jaskier would either resort to using his words or using Geralt’s bulk to avoid confrontation. He would abandon his dignity if it meant he and his belongings wouldn’t get injured.

(“Geralt, I’m serious, these trousers are worth more than your swords, they CANNOT get ripped!” Geralt couldn’t be bothered to suppress an eye roll as the man ran on ahead and away from another angry husband.)

Another oddity amongst dozens is that he never seemed to be afraid. In all the years Jaskier had woven himself in and out of Geralt’s life, he never caught a whiff of fear on the bard. Perhaps he had grown used to the dangers that came with traveling with a witcher. Perhaps he had been chased by enough vengeful spouses to not take their threats to heart. But whatever it was, it couldn’t explain how he was never afraid of Geralt or Yennefer or bandits or monsters or magic or armies or Queen Calanthe or anything they had ever come across. Nervous? Sure. Excited? Definitely. But afraid? Not once. Not once in twenty two years.

In hindsight, Geralt should’ve seen it. There were so many signs, but he was too busy being blind to notice just how _off_ his bard was.

* * *

The first time, he’s dancing around a tavern, singing his heart out and earning enough coin to actually pay for their lodging. The establishment is a small one, but thanks to the bard, it’s packed tonight. There isn’t a person who is sober; even Geralt rides on the numbing fuzz of, for once, full strength ale. True to his company, Jaskier wraps up with an encore of “Toss a Coin,” belting the last notes from atop the bar.

He jumps off and staggers to the floor, laughing and gathering coppers from the drunkards pressed close to him. Geralt watches fondly as his bard makes his way to the witcher’s booth. _My bard_ , the witcher muses, drowning in his fifth tankard. _He follows me around the Continent and sings of_ me _, so yes. Logically, he’s my bard._ He very nearly schools his smile when Jaskier gets close enough to see it when a few things happen at once:

A man, very loudly, loud enough to grate Geralt’s ears, slurs something about the White Wolf’s bitch. Not an uncommon phrase, and certainly not one that riles Jaskier. (If you want a bard angry, you insult his voice, not his… sleeping arrangements. Not that Jaskier _is_ Geralt’s bitch, but that’s neither here nor there.) Then, said man makes a grab at Jaskier’s ass. _Also_ not an uncommon event, and _also_ certainly not one that riles Jaskier. But the man grabs the bard’s shoulders and presses his lips to Jaskier’s ear, and blood is already rushing through Geralt so much so that the man’s comment doesn't even register. The witcher is up in an instant, if not to preserve Jaskier’s dignity, then his own. He takes about a step and a half before the man is twisted over the table, shoulder popping out weirdly and blood spraying towards the ceiling. The blade in Jaskier’s hand slides back easily into his sleeve, and the now-empty hand loosely clamps over the man’s slit wrist.

“Once more and you’ll lose it,” he croons gently. He lets go of the man, who is paling rapidly, and caresses his cheek, smearing blood on his shell shocked face. The scene goes unnoticed by most, and the few that do witness it merely sputter on their ale, laughing and coughing up their lungs.

“There are few joys as great as a satisfied crowd, don’t you think?” Jaskier wipes his bloody hand on a passing drunk and slides into a chair across Geralt’s seat. He smiles up at the witcher, but there’s a distinct nothingness in his gaze. He blinks and it’s gone, overwhelmed by delight when he sips the honey wine Geralt ordered for him.

“How did you manage that?” Geralt asks slowly, as if not to spook him.

“Oh my dear, let a man have his secrets! Just this once, hm?”

If Geralt was a little more sober, then he wouldn’t have let this go. But Jaskier is sloshing his drink over his wrist and grinning as if this one little favor would mean the world to him, so Geralt rolls his eyes instead.

The second time, Geralt isn’t supposed to see. They’re lodging in a backwater town, the ale watered down and the townspeople angry. Even Jaskier, who routinely talks and serenades his way into brothels, has a difficult time getting the time of day, much less a bedmate. Thank Melitele there’s a contract, but the farmer who hires him is stingy on the details, stingy enough to either look shady or have a genuine monster infestation. He voices this much to Jaskier the second night in the quiet of their room, the constant buzzing of insects that comes with the summer quickly driving the witcher mad. Jaskier seems no more affronted than he usually does and goes to sleep without a lingering thought. But the morning tells a different story.

Geralt wakes to an empty room; the lute case tucked under the bed, the doublet draped over a chair, and the lingering smell of bitter and sugar pleases the half-conscious man until he hears a racing heartbeat beneath the floorboards. One sounds like it’s about to burst while another beats evenly and slowly. The trail of bitterness goes down over the steps and near a back room of the inn; Geralt takes a sword for good measure and follows where he assumes his bard to be. He expected to see Jaskier being chased or threatened by a husband or some sort. For that reason, he had gifted the man a dagger for his own protection. Rather, the sight he sneaks upon is not one he’d ever think of: Jaskier, thin blade in hand, presses against the farmer, holding him to the wall with the aforementioned blade at his throat. His grip is light, but the blade is already close enough to draw blood, and the poor farmer looks far too scared shitless to do anything more than breathe shallowly.

“Come on, now. I know you know something. _You_ know I know you know something. Cough it up, and you’ll be on your way, Geralt will be on his way, and most importantly, _I’ll_ be on my way! A win-win-win situation, if you will.”

The farmer has less self-preservation than he should, for he stands tall and refuses Jaskier’s request. Dully, the bard sighs and lets the blade drag up and down the man’s throat, blooming little streams of blood with the tip.

“You know,” Jaskier leans in and breathes into the side of the man’s neck, “I’m going to have so much fun killing you.”

The blade drifts lower and lower, stopping at the soft flesh of the farmer's stomach. He whimpers as it tears through his shirt, and Geralt would be far more appalled if he isn’t so turned on. He rushes up the stairs, not even pausing to see if Jaskier killed the man, and he shoves himself back into their room and into the fresh bath Geralt doesn’t recall asking for. There are dozens of questions swimming through the witcher’s head, but the image of Jaskier holding a blade, eyes lidded and dark, voice low and sinister, sears through his mind. He barely finishes falling apart when the bard re-enters the room, knife tucked away and voice ringing the good news of a rabid bear lurking on the outskirts of town.

Third time’s the charm, or so they say. The number three has always had mystical properties, be it “three leaves, let it be” or “three meals a day” or three bedmates (a surprisingly funny story, according to Jaskier). Unfortunately, the third time Geralt should have noticed, he of course doesn't.

They're in the town square in the middle of the day, and try as he might, Jaskier can’t enthuse the crowd around him. Geralt has enough grace to wander a bit away and not dampen Jaskier’s show, but even then, it doesn’t seem to be much help. Frustrated, the bard leans against a nearby stall, plucking idly at his lute.

_When I was a child, I heard voices_

The change in dynamics sparks interest in the people, and they gather a little closer.

_Some would sing and some would scream_

_You soon find you have few choices_

_I learned the voices died with me_

The crowd grows as the midday noise reduces to almost nothing. If he’d pay closer attention, Geralt would see a slight glaze over their eyes. Instead, he watches Jaskier drift off in his mind, singing a song he’s never sang before in Geralt’s presence.

_When I was a child, I'd sit for hours_

_Staring into open flame_

_Something in it had a power_

_Could barely tear my eyes away_

_All you have is your fire_

_And the place you need to reach_

_Don't you ever tame your demons_

_But always keep 'em on a leash_

When he finishes, his coin pouch is full and young ladies weep quietly. Jaskier stands and crosses the space between him and his witcher. Without prompt, he presses the pouch against Geralt’s hand and says,

“People pay for happiness, but more than anything, for suffering.”

There’s the same kind of nothingness in his gaze, and when he walks to the nearest inn, Geralt trudges along wordlessly.


	2. you watch the stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide attempt

Jaskier has always been a right fellow, that much was plain to see. He’s only a bard, quick and fleeting and delightful as all the rest. He’s only a bard, singing of stories that aren't his and horrors he can’t have seen. He’s only a bard, young and innocent, whiplash and spitfire.

_He’s supposed to be only a bard._

He shouldn’t be fire and brimstone, lightning and current. He shouldn’t look at the world and feel nothing but emptiness. He’s supposed to laugh and cry and flail dramatically when someone insults his dress. He’s not supposed to glare at the sun, and the sun’s not supposed to cower back.

Everything about him is ordinary. He dresses well, expensively, and expensively well, but that’s to be expected of a viscount. He sings and plays well, _too_ well, but that's his job; he must play well to afford the clothes he flaunts (or at least to get paid). He acts out, but that’s what happens to humans sometimes. They feel too strongly and get too reckless for their own good. It’s why she’s glad she isn't one anymore.

It’s why it’s obvious Geralt isn’t one.

It’s why it’s obvious Jaskier _is_ one.

In hindsight, Yennefer should’ve seen it. There were so many signs, but she was too busy being blind to notice just how _wrong_ the bard was.

* * *

Not that she would’ve known, but the first time she meets Jaskier, she’s a young girl. She’s in Aretuza, desperately pouring through books to keep her mind off how badly she wants to _stop_. She comes across summoning circles, the dangerous ones, the ones Tissaia makes her promise to never complete. She does it anyway.

Lilit's circle is huge and impossibly intricate. It requires blood, way too much blood, but that’s the part Yenn is banking on: maybe if she bleeds out on the damp stone of the cellar’s floor, bent over half a dozen spell books, then no one will suspect suicide. No one will think her acceptance into the academy was a complete and total waste.

She’s already passed out a couple times, her healing charms becoming less and less effective as she feels chaos leeching her bones through her pores. It’s nearly done now, just one more sigil. One more sigil and finally, _finally_ , she can stop. The sulfur and salt she crushed between her fingers don’t hurt her anymore when she rubs them on her forehead, one smear on each temple, and one line over her lips, tucked under her chin. They mix with the bloody tears that leak from the corners of her eyes and the bloody spit that drips from her mouth. The wet gravel that litters the tile stings her cut palms, and the rancid mold growing between the cracks poison what’s left of her blood supply. But she’s a mage, godsdammit, and pain is a temporary feeling, so Yennefer shrieks unknowable words with the hope that they will kill her and leaves her body as a sacrifice for a goddess she isn’t sure exists.

She’s a mage, but she’s only a child, and _of course it didn’t work, what was she thinking, she’s barely a person, much less someone who can do real magic, much less someone who could summon a god._ She wants to cry–she doesn’t want to cry–okay maybe she wants to cry a little–when another child walks into the room. She isn’t conscious enough to wonder what a boy is doing in a girls’ school, so she says nothing as he skirts around her body, studying the summoning circle she drew around herself. His eyes are unnaturally bright but there’s nothing behind them, just like hers. They’re ringed red with sores and crusted blood, just like hers. There’s fresh blood pooling under his nails, dripping out of his nose, curling around his ears, gushing from his mouth, just like hers. He drags her limp form across the floor and props her against the wall, far from the destroyed circle.

“You did it wrong,” he says, and, using his own blood, creates entirely new sigils and signs, hands and lips moving a lot faster than hers did. He lies down in the center, taking her place, and clasps his hands over his stomach.

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” he says.

Yennefer doesn’t remember anything else from that night. When she wakes up, she’s in her bed, completely clean of blood and dirt and scars. Her books are under the floorboards, hidden as if he knew she shouldn’t be seen with them. There are buttercups braided through her hair, and even though she has the urge to burn them, she doesn’t.

They remain fresh until the day she Ascends, and she never asks about the boy in the cellar.

When she _knowingly_ meets Jaskier, it’s the second time she should’ve suspected something. He’s bleeding out on her floor, and she seriously considers using him as a puppet. But there’s a certain way he’s bleeding, not as if his heart is pulsing blood, but as if it just drips from his skin, that makes her pause. There’s a certain way his body is clearly breathing, but his heart refuses to beat, that makes her wonder ever so briefly if the bard isn't _just a bard_. She chalks it up to the djinn, in the end, and lets her mind wander to the witcher that made a place for himself in her bed. She thinks of how he marveled at her after their… _session_ , and just barely realizes that it’s the same look that flashed across Jaskier’s face when she held a knife to his throat. For all his flawless acting, Yennefer knows that he wasn’t truly afraid of her. She’d be insulted if the thought didn’t make her curious. He reminds her of the boy in the cellar, except he can’t have because the boy in the cellar wasn’t real.

The third time, she’s hiding in a tavern, tucked against the wall and sitting in between a couple of whores she bought, when his disgustingly cheerful voice assaults her senses. Naturally, he charms the barkeep and goes about singing of drunken wives and lonely maidens. The only thing that stops Yennefer from leaving right then and there is that she hopes to see Geralt with him. No such luck. Against her better judgement, she stays to watch him. In spite of their constant bickering and her insults, the bard is clearly skilled at seducing crowds and stealing their coin. He throws well-timed winks at the brooders in the corners of the room and slides into the lap of every man-spreading drunk he lays his eyes on. By some miracle, they never mind; instead, they slip coins and gifts into his pockets like he’s some kind of prostitute. By the end of his show, he’s secured at least three bedmates and looks as if he’s going for a fourth when he spots her. His smile turns into a sneer, and he stalks over to her table and her whores, itching for a fight.

“Oh my penumbral princess, you have surely seen better days,” he grabs her hand and lifts her fingers to his lips for a kiss before she wretches away and pulls her arm back to slap him.

“Alright then, my apologies, I will ask first next time,” he lifts his hands in a meek display of self-defense as he takes a seat across from her, sending her a smile that’s too much teeth and not enough _human_.

“I’ll chop off your cock and shove it down your throat if you even _think_ there’s a next time.” She moves to stand and leave, but he catches her sleeve for a brief moment. He is careful not to touch her skin when he calls her name, low and warning. His eyes flicker to a boorish man perched at the edge of the bar, blocking the door with his bulk. He is scanning the room, trying and failing at being discreet as he searches for a victim. The mage and the bard share the same dirty look, and Yennefer exits the tavern through the back door, leaving her women behind. She has no doubt Jaskier will pick them up, anyway.

She’s in her room half naked and casting extra wards when he knocks on her door. It’s been several hours since she’s last seen him, and, to her surprise, he is fully sober.

“For the ladies,” he holds out a coin purse to her. She raises her eyebrows at it and doesn’t take it.

“You can’t serenade me into bed with you.”

“I wasn’t trying to.” He leans against the door frame and waits for her to order him out. He never once glances at her breasts, retaining lazy eye contact instead, and she opens her door further.

“I hope you perform as well as you sing,” she says, letting him lock the door behind himself.

“How sweet. You think I sing well?” He pins her wrists behind her back and bends her over the oversized and overpriced bed.

“I never said that,” she breathes into his neck, pleasantly taking in a mix of bitterness and sugar.

He’s remarkably ruthless, much more than she expected him to be. She thought of him to be weak and submissive, but the grip in her hair as she is shoved face-first into the mattress tells her otherwise. He kisses her roughly and marrs her skin with his teeth, his words, his nails. He even makes her bleed (not that she minds), but not once does he hurt her. When they’re done, when the moon intrudes through the window, getting caught on Jaskier’s mussed hair and Yennefer’s swollen lips, he cradles her head and kisses her gently. No one’s kissed her like this before, not anyone from her orgies or from random trysts, not even Geralt. He doesn’t kiss her lovingly, per se, but he does so that makes it seem like he cares about her. It’s tender in a way she hates, and she almost shoves him off, but that’s just how she is with him, isn’t she? Her life with him is filled with almosts: almost killing him, almost leaving him, almost stabbing him, almost kissing him, almost _not_ kissing him. He holds her in his sleep, and for the first time with any lover, she lets him.

He’s gone in the morning, of course, as he should be. She’s on her way out of town, portal ready, when she hears a stamping of feet and a noticeable chill in the air that only comes when a crowd spontaneously forms. She pushes her way to the front and sees a man–the same predatory man from the tavern the night before– hanging by the neck from the steeple of the town church. He’s naked, his body a bloody and broken mess waist down. His cock was cut off and shoved down his own throat. There’s a bushel of dandelions sewn in between his legs, and Yennefer can’t help but laugh at the sight.


	3. welcome to my table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: torture

Jaskier isn’t one for subtleties. He doesn’t beat around the bush; he says exactly how he feels whenever he feels. He likes to communicate explicitly, for anything else is just a waste of time. Mages and witchers and humans and elves and monsters live for so few years. What’s the point in letting them waste their lives trying to figure out useless hidden meanings? Jaskier is many things, including cruel, but he cannot stand idleness. He blazed his way through Oxenfurt, taking the first and best spot in his class. He could, so why not? In Redania, he became one of their top spies within months. If it’s possible to do something, then why settle for anything less? Especially when you have a limited amount of time on your hands. It’s one of the many reasons why he could never fully understand mortals. They’re constantly settling. Settling for being a lover’s second choice, settling for fewer coins for a job, settling for disrespect when it’s too much trouble to do otherwise. There isn’t enough time in the universe for them, so why do they pretend to live forever?

No, Jaskier isn’t one for subtleties. He knows how he looks at the innkeeper's daughter when she brings up a bath. He knows how he looks when men offer to buy him. And he sure as hell knows how he looks at Geralt.

Geralt is not a talker; most of his vocabulary is limited to four different types of grunts and the word “no”. So Jaskier acted in kind. Well, not actually, but when confessing he does. In not so many words, he told the witcher that he wants to bed him. Repeatedly. Bed him repeatedly, and also tell him repeatedly that he wants to bed him. But the damn idiot didn’t seem to pick it up. For someone who is so clever and knowledgeable, Geralt is definitely one of the most thick-headed people Jaskier had ever come across. It’s as if he’d never come onto him at all. But more importantly, he’d stopped hiding who he really is. He’d dropped hints about his nature, about his skills, about his _power_ , long before they’d even met Yennefer. But it never mattered what Jaskier says or does; _he’s just a bard_ , isn’t he? Twenty two years of companionship, twenty two years of care, twenty two years of fixing his and every other witcher’s piss poor reputation, twenty two years of putting up with shit from the ungrateful bastard was all for what? To be told to fuck off a dragon’s mountain? What for? Because he ruined the witcher’s life? His happiness? His _witch_?

No.

Geralt ruined his own gods-fucking life, his own gods-fucking happiness, and his own gods-fucking chance with his gods-fucking witch (no pun intended). If he wants Jaskier to fuck off a dragon’s mountain, oh he’ll fuck off alright. And so will everything and everyone else.

Geralt should’ve seen it. They  _ all _ should’ve seen it. He dropped countless hints, sent them countless signs, but they were too busy being blind to notice just how  _ fucked _ they’d become.

* * *

He and Geralt are on the road. As always, Jaskier walks some ten, twenty miles on foot while the witcher (the witcher with significantly more stamina than a human, mind you) travels by horse. But he knows Geralt’s just trying to scare him off. Unfortunately for him, Jaskier doesn’t scare that easily. Technically, he doesn’t scare at all. So he’ll trudge the ten, twenty miles on foot if it means he can stick around for a good story. At first, that’s all Geralt was to him: a good story. Jaskier loves to travel the world, experience everything it has to offer. Melitele knows he’s spent enough time intervening, so it was high time for a change. Observing proved to be almost as fun as actually participating. He could see all the action, all the power, without needing to be at the center of it. And if he had to sneak into forests to watch Geralt hunt, then so what? The damned brute wouldn’t let him follow, most of the time.  _ It’s too dangerous _ , he’d say.  _ I literally made the monsters you’re fighting _ , Jaskier wishes he said back. But he doesn’t.

Getting attacked by selkimores and slowly yet miraculously healing every time was bound to seem suspicious, he is sure of it. (Apparently not, as it turns.) So he stops faking a little bit at a time. A kikimore goes to slash at his abdomen before Geralt can kill it, and it lands a hit. Geralt sees it land a hit. Jaskier  _ knows _ Geralt saw it land a hit. But what does the bard do? He wipes the blood away without so much as a grimace. And with the blood goes the wounds. “Ugh, this chemise is ruined. Completely ruined! It was  _ your _ fault it targeted me, so  _ you _ owe me a new one!” He teases gently, picking at the garment he’ll just wash in the river. Geralt grunts in reply, giving him a once-over to make sure he’s not seriously hurt before stalking towards Roach.  _ Typical _ . What, does he have to make his guts spill out for the man to notice?

When the djinn attacks him, he’s coughing up blood and chunks of lung for a few minutes ‘til he realizes that this is yet another perfect opportunity. He’s hanging off the witcher’s arm, letting himself be dragged to the witch’s house. He’s clutching at Geralt’s sleeves, his hands, his hair, until the moment he passes out from pain and blood loss. He’s whispering, begging him to stay by his side. Geralt doesn’t realize it, but so is he. He looks at the bard as if his world is shattering, and Jaskier would be damned if he isn’t looking back at him like that. Even Yennefer picks it up, not that they're being particularly subtle about it.

Jaskier doesn’t bother regulating his body the way he normally does. He figures he’d probably look dead if he stops breathing, so he wills a working pair of lungs into his chest cavity. But hearts aren’t  _ that _ necessary, are they? It doesn’t actually matter to him because he doesn’t force his to beat anyway. The witch heals him before he decides to heal himself, which saves him the trouble, but that means it looks like  _ she’s _ the only one with power! Damn her helpfulness. By the end of the day, he decides that it’s too much of a disaster to try and fix. They almost leave, but of course the witch wants more power (who doesn’t?) and of course the witcher wants to save the day. Jaskier would have saved her anyway as a thanks for healing him, but  _ noo, the witch is too sexy to leave to her own devices, the mighty White Wolf must save her from herself _ . What bullshit. The woman probably has enough power to kill the djinn herself without Jaskier’s help, and certainly without Geralt’s. The house crashes down anyway, but the two are still alive. Oh, they’re  _ really _ alive. They have no business being that alive, and Jaskier can’t help but wish they were both a little dead. That night, he sneaks off to the nearest brothel and buys a woman with tan skin, long dark hair, and a sharp voice.

Years later, in a ridiculous turn of events, Jaskier finds himself and his trio of witch-people crammed into a lord’s basement; with varying levels of wounds, they’re writhing on the floor, waiting to die on the whim of a sadistic egomaniac. Despite Geralt’s fury, or possibly in response to, Jaskier seems to be the favorite of the four of them.

“NO!” Ciri shrieks, or attempts to with the gag over her mouth, when Jaskier is hauled up by his hair. A needle weaves in and out of the flesh on his cheeks, and he no longer has the strength to scream or protest.

“He’s just a human. Let him be, he has no part in this,” Yennefer spits out for the dozenth time that hour, choking out equal parts venom and anguish. Geralt sits numbly, letting the poison run its course through his veins and watching the blood trail down his bard’s face. He wonders idly if there’s a chance praying will work; so far he’s tried Melitele, Lilit, Dagon, and Rarog. He doesn't know all the rites for Lilit or Dagon, but he’s been hoping Yennefer does. Meanwhile, Yenn knows in the back recesses of her mind that Jaskier spilled more than enough blood for Lilit’s strongest circle, if only someone could scribe to save him. At the moment, his right shoulder is out of its socket and the nails of his left hand sit shattered in a bowl off to the side. His left knee bends in the opposite direction it’s supposed to, and the cuts that trail down his appendages are well on their way to being infected. His jaw is not broken, but his molars probably are, and his left eye swells shut, no matter how hard he tries to make eye contact with Ciri and tell her that he’s alright.

_ He’s alright _ .

Of course he’s fucking not. It’s a wonder he’s alive right now, with the amount of blood welling in his abdomen under his skin. Like Geralt and Yennefer (but thank the gods not the child), he’s been stripped of his outer layers. Nothing but thin sweat-soaked trousers protects him from hot scalpels and freezing ground. The lord- Ansel, maybe?- has moved on to tearing Jaskier’s hair out. It lands in tangled clumps at Yennefer’s feet; the same hair that she’s carded her fingers through over and over when the night’s aren’t nearly long enough, the same hair that Ciri used to braid, the same hair that Geralt used to complain about getting too long compresses in puddles of fiber and scalp and thick blood.  _ It’s better me than you, sweetheart, _ he’d once said to them before he was dragged across the floor and waterboarded under a faucet.  _ It’s better me than you, _ he’d said once he came back. He’d been resigned to a slow and languid death from the moment they were shackled to the walls. But it changes when a man laughs at Ciri’s tears and kicks her in the stomach. She doubles over, and with her face to the floor, the man stomps on her head. There’s a sickening crunch that signals her broken nose and jaw, and she whimpers underneath the man's boot. Yennefer sees red and struggles against her chains. She pulls too hard, dislocating her shoulder, but that doesn’t matter because the child,  _ her child _ , was just stepped on like an insect. Geralt’s arms are broken, so he can’t quite pull on his restraints without passing out, but the fire in his eyes blazes all the same; Ciri was his child first. There’s a shout outside the door, and the lord and his men exit, but not before eyeing Jaskier in a way that makes Geralt lurch.

The second they leave, the bard is scrambling to get to Ciri. He’s calling her name softly, turning her onto her back with his damaged hands. She doesn’t answer, and Yenn’s heart leaps into her mouth until she sees the girl’s chest rise and fall. It falls back into her throat.

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ , fucking  _ shit _ ,” Jaskier swears repeatedly, cradling her blonde-turned-pink head in his hands.

“I didn’t know, I’m so sorry,  _ shit _ , I didn’t know,  _ I should’ve burned him the second I saw him _ . Ciri, I’m so fucking sorry.” His voice breaks when he says her name; his rambling turns incoherent and he flips his words into another language. She’s his child too. They all lie there, shaking and dry sobbing over the littlest witch in the room.

Gods, that’s all they are. They’re all children. Ciri, what is she, twelve? Thirteen? Geralt and Yennefer are over a hundred each, but what is a hundred years? They haven’t watched the world evolve, they haven’t seen the moon break off the earth and hurtle into the sky, they haven’t heard when sirens first learned how to sing, they haven’t woven chaos into the universe half a million years ago by singing a new-born Melitele to sleep. Life isn’t fair, it isn’t meant to be, but this isn’t even injustice. This is wrong, this is sin, this never should have happened. Jaskier lifts his eyes from the ground.

“Promise me you won’t ask me any questions,” he whispers to the beings that are closest to his non-beating heart.

“Please.”

They don’t know what they’re promising, not really, but he’s dying, and if they can do one thing, it’s giving a dying man his last wish. With great difficulty, he dislocates his thumbs and pulls his wrists from his restraints. There are blades in his hands because of course there are, and with one last pained look, he slips from the room. An hour comes and goes, then a day, then another, then another, then they lose track of time, and Jaskier never comes back. But neither does anyone else. They pass out, from dehydration or malnutrition or just plain pain, and they pray they die each time.

When they fully come around, it’s winter, five months later. Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri are in Kaer Morhen, hidden in the deepest parts of the keep. For the first time, Lambert and Eskel treat them gently and speak even more so. Vesemir says nothing about Jaskier.

They look for a Lord Ansel, asking every pedestrian and court official and soldier they come across, reading every book and archive and stone tables they unearth. Lord Ansel and his estate, his name, his land, his legacy, turn up nothing; they track down the house to its exact location, and in its place is a brothel that had supposedly existed for the past fifty years. It’s almost as if the lord never existed to begin with.

Geralt finds Jaskier in Oxenfurt three years later. As promised, he never asks any questions.


End file.
